


The Hudson River In February. Yay

by jesseofthenorth



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, maybe sorta almost might someday become pre slash, or soaking wet woobie/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is wet, cold, annoyed, cold, feeling sorry for himself and cold.  A little. Maybe. What ever he's COLD okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hudson River In February. Yay

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill the shower/bath square on my [ cotton-candy bingo](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile) card

You would think with the number of times he has almost frozen his ass _off_ Clint would be better at avoiding the cold all together. Except for the part where he wasn't. That being an Avenger thing kinda put a crimp in avoiding unpleasantly cold situations sometimes. Especially when Avengering lead to him being pitched face first into the Hudson River in February. The Hudson was bad enough in August, but the middle of winter lent an element of extra suckage to landing there. This wasn't really all down to the Hudson. There were also Doom Bots. Clint fucking hated Doom Bots.

"I hate fucking Doom Bots" Clint muttered and started swimming toward the shoreline.

The only upside to going under the water was that he wasn't going to get a reprimand from Cap for swearing on comms. Because his comm unit was fried from all the water. Small frozen cold mercies.

Clint kicked off his boots and started swimming.

*

There was a SHIELD van waiting for him on shore. Normally he kinda hated those assholes and their suits and all the bullshit that came with them. Today he would cop to being semi glad to see them. No one else was in the vicinity and he couldn't feel his hands or feet. Given the givens a couple of waywards SHIELD agents weren't the worst thing he could be dealing with.

"Hawkeye" the older of the two said, stepping forward, "Need a hand?" 

Clint was maybe a little out of it from the cold, but he was pretty sure he knew the tone of voice that indicated the guy was being a condescending asshole. 

"Fergeffle" was not what Clint meant to say in response but it was all that came out. He was maybe a little colder than he initially thought. He actually meant to say 'fuck you'.

"Right" the suit said and reached down to haul him up off of the particularly disgusting section over river bank he'd washed up on.

Clint relaxed (totally collapsed into a soaking wet heap) once he was in the van. He was relatively sure they weren't taking him somewhere to be disposed of, but it _SHIELD_ so you could never be entirely sure. At this point he was too cold to give a shit. He sorta knew the one guy , Coulson, and he wasn't _that_ bad. Besides he was pretty sure they were too scared if Natasha to get rid of him too blatantly. Hopefully. Maybe. What the fuck ever. Clint decided he was too fucking cold to care at this point and curled up in the back seat to conserve his little remaining body heat. He also didn't care that he was actually totally passing out.

He wasn't really surprised to wake up again (okay maybe a little). He _was_ surprised to wake up parked outside his building with Coulson shaking his shoulder.

"Hawkeye. Hey! Hawkeye. You can't die in here. Let's get you up top your apartment first."

Clint must be warming up. His "Fuck You" was a lot more coherent this time.

"Not unless you buy me dinner first" Coulson said and hauled him out of the van.

*

Walking up four flights of stairs was a total pain in the ass when you couldn't feel your feet.

*

"Keys." Coulson demanded when they were standing (okay Coulson was standing, Clint was being propped up) in front of Clint's door.

Clint scowled at him "How do you even know where I live?" 

Coulson just smirked and reached into the front of Clint's tac-suit where he kept a spare house key.

 

Lucky wasn't there, of course. He was with Katie. Again. Katie whom, Clint mostly loved but occasionally wanted to smack for stealing the affections of the only other being Clint saw on a regular basis that still actually loved him, his dog, Lucky. Who was not currently there to snuggle up to Clint's extremely frozen ...everything. 

Crap. Clint didn't even try not to feel sorry for himself. He was one one sorry ass guy, when his only readily available friends were a one eyed traitor dog and and an obnoxious teen aged girl. Neither of whom were even around. 

He hung his head and headed for the can fumbling at the zipper of his tac vest. Fine he could just warm up in the shower. didn't need the damned dog to warm his feet up. Asshole always stole all the blankets any way. 

He stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower to get it good and warmed up. He stood there fighting with the zipper he couldn't quite work for a couple of minutes, sporadically shivering and feeling miserable before deciding 'fuck it' and got into shower fully dressed. He could get the fucking thing off once he was thawed out enough to work a zipper.

*

Clint jerked awake some undetermined amount of time later to the sound of pounding on the door. He had lukewarm water pouring onto his face.

"Crap!" Clint spluttered and maybe flailed a bit. He definitely whacked his arm on the wall and slipped on the floor of his tub-slash-shower, where he had apparently fallen asleep standing under the spray.

"Hey Barton! Did you manage to actually drown yourself in the shower?"

"FUCK!" Clint shrieked as his soaking wet socked feet finally lost traction and went out from under him. 

Of course hit his head on the side of the tub on the way down. The enameled cast iron tub. Yay.

He was still laying there, water running onto his face gasping for air when the bathroom door flew open and Coulson burst in.

"Wow" he said looking impressed. "You really are a fucking mess, just like Miss Romanov said, aren't you?" Okay maybe not _impressed_ exactly. 

Coulson at least had the decency not to asked if he needed a hand, this time. He just grabbed a hold of Clint's arm and hauled him over the side of the tub, then reached past him to turn the water off.

When the water was off Coulson sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and regarded him for a moment.

"Thanks for the uh- saving me from drowning. Twice. I think i got it from here." 

Coulson just kept staring at him.

"Honestly. I'm good. You can go now"

"Not a chance." Coulson said throwing a towel at Clint's head. "Natasha Romanov would stab me in the _neck_ if I left you in this state. And frankly that is an experience I am not in a hurry to repeat." He walked toward the bathroom door, turning to say "You should probably get out of that gear before you start to prune" and closed the door behind himself.

 

It is surprisingly difficult to get out of wet tac gear. Clint didn't even bother hanging it up to dry. There was no way he was going to get the smell of the river out of the mysteriously constructed pores of the fabric. He wasn't even going to try. It was getting time for new gear anyway, this set was getting a little ragged and weirdly tight in unexpected places. Maybe something with a little more purple on it next time.

Clint had no idea why he actually expected Coulson to be gone when he walked out of the bathroom, head buried in one towel and another wrapped haphazardly around his waist. And yet. There he was leaning against the counter in Clint's kitchen, holding Clint's favorite mug and smirking.

"Was there something I could help you with Agent Coulson?" Clint asked making no effort to keep the confusion and slight hostility out of his voice. "Am I being surveilled or something?"  
"Nope" the Agent answered taking a sip of what ever was in the mug he was holding. 

Mug. With steam. Coffee? Coffee!

"Coffee!" said Clint. Clint let the towel he was using on his hair slip to his shoulders and made  
a beeline for the pot

"Decaf" Agent Coulson responded.

"Decaf? I have decaf?" stopping short.

"You do now." Coulson said and slid a mug across the counter toward Clint.

"But?" Clint stared at the cup. "What is the point of coffee without any _caffeine_?" It made exactly zero sense to Clint. No caffeine! What the actual fuck?

"No one. No.One. Especially _me_ , wants to see you in a mildly hypothermic state and buzzed on caffeine. So. Decaf. Drink up." he said "It'll finish warming you up."

Clint took the mug and grumbled his way over to the sofa. It didn't smell bad, and the first sip wasn't gross or anything. Clint settled down into the sagging (extremely comfortable) cushions. He reached for the remote as he was swallowing the last of the coffee. 

It was the last thing he remembered doing before he woke up the after dark with the comforter from his bed wrapped tight around him. He was completely warm and snug, and his apartment was quiet and apparently empty. Clint went right back to sleep.

When he woke up in the morning he was curled in a shivering ball on the sofa. Lucky was asleep at the other end. With all the blankets and the towel Clint had been wearing when he passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> May possibly lead to Coulson's perspective. Or something. At some point. Possibly before I die of old age. Maybe.


End file.
